The sun's washed-out rays feebly peeked through the lone grime-coated window of my hovel, and my eyes snapped open to greet another day. I’d lost track of the date, as every day consisted of the same routine for me; I only knew it was mid-fall, probably October. I could feel a slight breeze whispering through a crack in the wall, and the familiar autumn scent of dry leaves was a comforting familiarity.
I set about my tasks, weary of the monotonous motions of my solitary existence. Still, for seventeen years I continued my routine, if only because I didn’t know what else to do:
1. Rinse the permanent funk of sleep out of my mouth 2. Dampen the cleanest cloth with rain water and wipe my skin of sweat or obtrusive odor 3. Comb dry shampoo through my long, straight brown hair 4. Apply makeup – focusing on my appearance comforted me in these lonely, uncertain times 5. Eat a small portion of dried fruit 6. Sun salutation, meditation and prayer 7. Mid-day jog 8. Read fifty pages of the next book on the shelf 9. Write about my reading 10. Reorganize belongings 11. Attempt, in vain, to re-wire my mother’s ancient telecommunications device 12. Scavenge on days when inventory runs low 13. Prepare food for dinner – for this meal I reserved particularly delicious food finds 14. Meditation and prayer 15. Sleep
I was particularly eager to begin my run this morning, because the sun’s rare appearance made the venture out into an otherwise bleak world a bit more appealing. I stretched my legs, long and limber from years of exercise, attempting to shake off the sleepy stiffness in my muscles. I laced up my tattered running shoes, which had once belonged to a neighbor whose feet were slightly smaller than mine, and departed out into the unusually bright October morning.
My eyes adjusted to the unfiltered light, and I hit a good stride as I jogged down the cracked concrete. I kept my gaze straight ahead of me, not allowing myself the distraction of examining the rubble-reduced neighborhood. In my desperation to hold on to certain creature comforts, I’d pillaged most of the wreckage and by then had emptied the area of all valuable items. I knew that soon, I would need to venture further from my home in order to replenish my supply of certain necessary items – toilet paper, lotion, food – and I felt apprehensive about this expedition. But I could not let that affect my focus.
Still, as I continued straight ahead, I couldn’t help noticing movement in my peripheral vision. There was someone tailing me, scurrying along on the other side of the crumbled stone wall that once shielded the houses from street view. I quickened my pace to lose my pursuer, but he followed suit. I stopped suddenly, and the person fell down, tripping over a loose rock.
"Who are you?" I called out to the small, dark figure, wary.
A scrawny, mangy man stumbled out of the shadows, twitching. "Can’t say. You the Barrett girl?” His gravel voice grated against my ears.
“Don’t speak so candidly, sir. What do you want?" I didn't like people knowing my surname. My parents had been targeted, for their money, no doubt, and I wanted to avoid a similar fate.
"Got some info, if ya care to know it." His yellowing teeth looked fuzzy in the hazy light.
"Well, speak up, then.” I fixed my expression into a stony glare, though my resolve had been shaken at this dirty imp’s mention of my parents’ surname. I had kept my identity, and my past, quite hidden for all these years, and it frightened me that this person should so easily be able to identify me.
"Heard some Keepers talkin’ in a bar. Braggin' about havin' Ma and Pa Barrett in their hands. Think they're workin' on something in their hidey-hole. You’re lookin’ for ‘em. Reckon they might have some more information – if ya had some tech to trade." He handed me something plastic. An iPod. As he reached out to me, his dirty sleeve moved to reveal a tattoo on his hairy wrist, but I did not immediately recognize its shape. He pulled his arm away before I had a chance to look more closely.
I was at a loss for words as I stared at the ancient piece of tech, turning it over in my hands. I wondered how this smelly vagabond had known of me, of my plight. “What is your price for this information?” But my question floated into empty space, for he had disappeared, just as silently as he had come.
The Call to Adventure
The sun's washed-out rays feebly peeked through the lone grime-coated window of my hovel, and my eyes snapped open to greet another day. I’d lost track of the date, as every day consisted of the same routine for me; I only knew it was mid-fall, probably October. I could feel a slight breeze whispering through a crack in the wall, and the familiar autumn scent of dry leaves was a comforting familiarity.
I set about my tasks, weary of the monotonous motions of my solitary existence. Still, for seventeen years I continued my routine, if only because I didn’t know what else to do:
1. Rinse the permanent funk of sleep out of my mouth
2. Dampen the cleanest cloth with rain water and wipe my skin of sweat or obtrusive odor
3. Comb dry shampoo through my long, straight brown hair
4. Apply makeup – focusing on my appearance comforted me in these lonely, uncertain times
5. Eat a small portion of dried fruit
6. Sun salutation, meditation and prayer
7. Mid-day jog
8. Read fifty pages of the next book on the shelf
9. Write about my reading
10. Reorganize belongings
11. Attempt, in vain, to re-wire my mother’s ancient telecommunications device
12. Scavenge on days when inventory runs low
13. Prepare food for dinner – for this meal I reserved particularly delicious food finds
14. Meditation and prayer
15. Sleep
I was particularly eager to begin my run this morning, because the sun’s rare appearance made the venture out into an otherwise bleak world a bit more appealing. I stretched my legs, long and limber from years of exercise, attempting to shake off the sleepy stiffness in my muscles. I laced up my tattered running shoes, which had once belonged to a neighbor whose feet were slightly smaller than mine, and departed out into the unusually bright October morning.
My eyes adjusted to the unfiltered light, and I hit a good stride as I jogged down the cracked concrete. I kept my gaze straight ahead of me, not allowing myself the distraction of examining the rubble-reduced neighborhood. In my desperation to hold on to certain creature comforts, I’d pillaged most of the wreckage and by then had emptied the area of all valuable items. I knew that soon, I would need to venture further from my home in order to replenish my supply of certain necessary items – toilet paper, lotion, food – and I felt apprehensive about this expedition. But I could not let that affect my focus.
Still, as I continued straight ahead, I couldn’t help noticing movement in my peripheral vision. There was someone tailing me, scurrying along on the other side of the crumbled stone wall that once shielded the houses from street view. I quickened my pace to lose my pursuer, but he followed suit. I stopped suddenly, and the person fell down, tripping over a loose rock.
"Who are you?" I called out to the small, dark figure, wary.
A scrawny, mangy man stumbled out of the shadows, twitching. "Can’t say. You the Barrett girl?” His gravel voice grated against my ears.
“Don’t speak so candidly, sir. What do you want?" I didn't like people knowing my surname. My parents had been targeted, for their money, no doubt, and I wanted to avoid a similar fate.
"Got some info, if ya care to know it." His yellowing teeth looked fuzzy in the hazy light.
"Well, speak up, then.” I fixed my expression into a stony glare, though my resolve had been shaken at this dirty imp’s mention of my parents’ surname. I had kept my identity, and my past, quite hidden for all these years, and it frightened me that this person should so easily be able to identify me.
"Heard some Keepers talkin’ in a bar. Braggin' about havin' Ma and Pa Barrett in their hands. Think they're workin' on something in their hidey-hole. You’re lookin’ for ‘em. Reckon they might have some more information – if ya had some tech to trade." He handed me something plastic. An iPod. As he reached out to me, his dirty sleeve moved to reveal a tattoo on his hairy wrist, but I did not immediately recognize its shape. He pulled his arm away before I had a chance to look more closely.
I was at a loss for words as I stared at the ancient piece of tech, turning it over in my hands. I wondered how this smelly vagabond had known of me, of my plight. “What is your price for this information?” But my question floated into empty space, for he had disappeared, just as silently as he had come.